Growing Up In Buxworth

“Home on
D'Ranged, a childhood during WW2.”

I was 4 years
old in 1939 when my first recollections of Buxworth began. I played with a toy wooden horse and cart and rode a
tricycle on Barren Clough, Buxworth a lane fronting the village football field.
There more rides in a three wheeled wooden cart pulled and operated by “Tee”
Sidebottom the then local roadman. I didn't know it at the time but when family
history later entered into my story, I discovered that he was a family
relative. Mother and Grandma Platts (Nan) took me some afternoons to the
meetings of the “Mother's Union” non-political unless there was some village
scandal to report. These Mother's
meetings were held in the “War Memorial Institute ” known more affectionately
as “The Club”.The meetings under the auspice of St James's Church, Buxworth,
were not of a high religious nature but more of a meeting point to swap news,
gossip, scandal and recipes, in no particular order unless there was some real
scandal, which was worth giving it a proper good airing. I was puzzled why,
despite the nomenclature “ Mother's Union” so many of the members were buxom mature single matrons. But the
news, good or bad, was assured of a
good and wide circulation. Older children attended at school holidays, I learned
that “Mother's Onion” and “Mother's
Mafia” were alternative misnomers.

Jackie and
Terry Prior, family relatives living nearby escorted me to my first day at
Buxworth School. I didn't realise it at the time but this was the first day of
my independence. So my early education started in the Infants Class under the
watchful eye of Miss. Littlewood. With a well built human frame, knitted
woollen skirts and jackets together with pince-nez glasses, the spitting image
for Miss Prism, She cosseted, cajoled
and corrected her little charges in
equal measure.

Buxworth School

There were no
pre-school groups in the late thirties and early forties, just common or garden
infants under the buxom but gentle-womanly Miss. Littlewood. I was a late
starter to a full school life in Buxworth because I had been in and out of
school and had spent a few weeks in Manchester Royal Infirmary with a suspected
mastoid. I can pin point the date from
an entry in the Buxworth School Logbook. 16-12-1941.
Dr Bamber made a medical inspection of all pupils. At 1-20 pm she examined
Keith Holford and ordered him to be sent home at once -- likelihood of a
developing mastoid trouble.” No mastoid, but the hospital justified their
existence by removing my tonsils. My stay too, left me with
alifelong anathema to the smell of
boiling cabbage and fish poached in milk. Christmas Eve brought horror rather
than happiness when a fancy dressed monkey monkeyed his or her way through the
children's wards. Since that day I have never knowingly found time to utter a
good word regarding monkeys. The bonus however was Christmas presents at both
the hospital and later at home.

There were no
Ladybird books, Janet and Johns, Ninja Turtles, Bart Simpson et al, just plain
honest to goodness stories and tales from her ample repertoire and matching
bodily frame. I looked forward to the late afternoons when we infants crowded
around to catch every word of her
intonations and deliberations. It was considered a perk and an honour for two
named infants ( always boys ) to polish her shoes whilst she read out loud,
while she sat comfortably ensconced in an oak windsor chair. The chosen two
were closer to her than all the other children, some boys bragged that they had
even seen her knickers.

Mother had a
ventriloquist dummy which for some reason was named “George”, he had belonged
to Henry her younger brother. George changed loyalties and became a favourite of Miss Littlewood, the infants
sat enthralled by her manipulations of his strings. When my children were young
George moved in with us and he currently sits quietly on an upstairs dressing
table without making a muff or a fluff. Being nearly a 100 years old he is now
beginning to show his age. Miss Littlewood got more mileage out of George than
the Goodwood motor and horse racing circuits put together. George returned to
Buxworth School when our children arrived on the scene, Miss. Littlewood was
still there minding the infants. I have discovered through the internet that
George's original name was “Charlie McCarthy” hand operated by an American
named Edgar Burden, 1903-1978,
Charlie's name changed to Charlie Farnsbarns. The starting price for a
similar George on ebay varies between £100-300, but I doubt if any of them have
had the same experiences?

George, the ventriloquist's dummy

I was still in
the infants class when I had my first fright. The film “The Wizard of Oz” was
being screened on a special weekday matinee bill, venue Whaley Bridge Cinema.
The timings were arranged to match the bus service that ran from Chinley
through Buxworth, via Whaley Bridge onto Kettleshulme. The school was given a
half day off to view the film. Mother and I caught the North Western omnibus to
Whaley Bridge. She bought our cinema tickets and we entered “The Bughouse” the
correct name being “The Picture House”.
It had formerly been a corn mill. The sight of the Tin Man, the Scarecrow and
the Lion but especially the Witch, scared the living daylights out of me.
Within minutes of the film starting, the pair of us were outside the cinema walking
back home over the hill to Buxworth. It is true to say that she never ever held
that outcome against me. I have boycotted the Yellow Brick Road ever since

The reality of
WW2 came home to Buxworth when increasing numbers of evacuated school children
started to arrive in the village from local industrial towns where bombing had
either taken place or there was a high risk that it could. Stockport and Manchester
schools began the trek but then children came from a much wider field,
Southend-on-Sea and Coventry. The nearest we had come to the reality of war in Buxworth was a
red glow in the sky over Manchester and the drumming of warplanes overhead.
Often the aftermath was collecting “silver chaff”, long silver metallic strands
jettisoned from enemy planes, their aim being to confuse aircraft locating
systems .

But it seemed
no time at all before I moved into Standard One with Miss Isobel Porritt, under
her tutelage, I learned to read fluently and execute joined up writing. I also
discovered that black ink, brought round in big brown stone jars by class
monitors, soaked into a blob of blotting paper went a long way when flicked
with a ruler. She awakened my latent interest in natural history by taking
Standards One and Two on nature walks around the village of Buxworth. No high
visible jackets or highway code, it was come dressed as you are, no elves and
safety to follow.

My old school cap

The most
serious subject was “History” with Walter (Boss) Hallam, the headmaster of the
school. When he rolled up his sleeves and brought down a rolled up 6 foot long
“Map of the World” that normally rested on a line of coat hooks, we all knew
that we were in for another chapter of his personal WW1 battle. Many years
later, after his death, I learned from his daughter Margaret, that against all
military regulations, he had kept a diary of his war service. I recommended
that she donate his diaries to the Imperial War Museum. He was a stickler for
keeping Empire Day in the minds of his little charges. His graphic stories
knocked spots off Captain Marvel, Superman and Batman combined.

Britain still
had an Empire in the 1940's, great land masses were shown in red, which he
pointed to with an old billiard cue. Parts of it he had to admit were then
currently occupied by foreign forces. He would have even less material to work
on now ! He tried to instil an “esprit de corps” into to our meagre frames.
During the war, special campaigns were brought to the fore. The “Dig for
Victory Campaign” I realise now that
was an early pioneering form of self sufficiency. School allotments were
created on land between the school and the railway line from Manchester to
London. Under Boss Hallam’s supervision “The senior boys allotment parties”
resembled slave labour en route to the mines or even worse. It was obvious that
“Boss” could not be in two places at once, so with minimal supervision there
was competition for places. It could be said without fear of contradiction that
there were two winners – the rabbits living on the railway embankment and the
local Smith family, but more of their history later.

Another scheme
was “War Weapons Week”. We were given a week off school and encouraged to go
out into the locality and collect such items as rubber tyres, cast iron, old
iron, aluminium and other objects that could be recycled into the “ War Effort”
At that date the Bugsworth canal basin was still in water but not navigable.
Local neighbours of mine, the Fletcher brothers, Gordon and Brian, had the
inspirational idea of using their mother's clothes line (without permission)
with a home fashioned hook as a dragline. We were at that part of the Peak
Forest Canal known as “The Wide.” One brother throwing and the other holding
the end of the dragline, in fact things were going too smoothly. Due to
communication problems between the brothers one threw but the other brother was
not on hold so both hook and clothes line literally sank to a watery grave.
It became even graver on their mother's next washing day.

The School
Logbook 4-11-1942 reads– In the two weeks ending Oct 21st,
the school salvaged non-ferrous
metals, 9lbs of Copper, 70lbs of Zinc,
16lbs of Aluminium, 50lbs of brass, 104lbs of lead, 450lbs-rubber were collected. Boys salvaged most of the
rubber from out of the canal basin.No names and
no clothes lines were mentioned.

Those children
living on farms were given an extra fortnight off school for “potato picking”.
Due to the war, manual labour was hard to find. Senior boys were also allowed
to help out in this exercise / alternatively hard work. It was a good excuse to get away from the Boss and earn some money
at the same time. In the autumn we raided the local hedgerows to pick rose
hips, subsequently distilled into “Rose Hip Syrup”. The pay was three old
pennies for each pound of hips, weighed in at school. The School Logbook
24-10-1941 reads – School has gathered 53
lbs of rose hips. 24-Jan-1944reads 165 lbs of rose hips collected. Paid out £1-6-8 to the children.

There was no doubt that we were at war, gas masks had to
be taken to school. The masks were housed in a strong cardboard box to which an
attached cord hung around the neck or over the shoulder. The youngest children
had “Mickey Mouse Masks“, which older children envied and tried to swap. The
gas van parked outside school. Donning a mask, everyone had to enter the van
and sit on the benches whilst the gas was released. It was a toss up which was
the lesser evil, the condensation in the claustrophobic masks or the poisonous
gas. In the event of an air raid children were allocated to dispersal points.
These dispersal points had to be within three minutes travelling distance from
school, naturally everyone wanted to get home. Mary Solomon lived in Canalside
Cottages adjacent to Britannia Wireworks. Mary had been given Mrs Cope's Navigation Shop as her point
of reference, but Mary maintained to Boss Hallam that she could travel from
Buxworth School to Canalside Cottages within the three minutes. The upshot was
that Boss put her to the acid test by borrowing a stopwatch and timing her race
against his clock to get home within the allotted time.

Most of the
pupils at Buxworth School had a relative serving in the armed forces, indeed
both my father and my mother's brother were called to the colours. One lad,
whom modesty forbids me to name, suffice to hint, that he is now the owner of
one of the largest funeral parlours in the High Peak, was to cause morning
mayhem to Boss Hallam's normal calm and collected exterior. The pupil, a great
pal of mine, arrived at school one morning (his father was home on leave from
Malta) with what loosely could be called “white balloons”. An older pupil who came from the large
extended Hall family, more worldly
wise, blew up the “white balloons”, much to the joy of the large but toyless
playground. Alerted by the universal and unusual acclaim, Boss Hallam appeared
in the playground to enquire into this early morning enhancement. His normal
calm and collected mood instantly morphed into a “Crackers”. The spoilsport quickly gathered up the
balloons and disappeared with them down the steps of the boiler house. He gave no
explanation in assembly and the incident and items were never mentioned, which
to my mind and many others was completely out of character. Later in life I
discovered the secret for Boss Hallam's demeanour --- the balloons were condoms
supplied at his Majesty's pleasure and accidentally for unworldly children.

It wasn't all
“doom and gloom”, in the war years, we children made our own amusements. Iron
hoops were still around, kick-can a form of hide and seek, hop scotch, sliding
and skating on the frozen Peak Forest Canal, sledging in the winter. Tying
adjacent doors together, then knocking on both doors. On dark nights pulling
the chains down on gas lamps when people approached, stretching black cotton
across the road in the dark. Crist Quarry, long since disused with the demise
of the canal system and the advance of railways, became an adventure
playground. A great setting for “Cowboys and Indians” though not many children
volunteered to be the Indians. We traversed, with hand held candles, the long
tunnel that led from Crist Quarry to the Bugsworth Basin, searching for the
crosses etched in the stonework where former quarry workers were alleged to
have been killed.

Decades later
Crist Quarry was to be setting for the 5 year battle by Buxworth villagers
versus the financial might of Ferodo Ltd over the indiscriminate illegal
tipping of asbestos waste. A fight that ultimately helped to formulate the
strict regulations regarding asbestos waste disposal. That fight was an epic
“David versus Goliath” where people power and ten tenacious villagers led the
battle against a bully of some magnitude with an unlimited source of money and
local influence in the public
administration of the area.

Crist Quarry

The “Piece de Resistance” in Bugsworth Basin was
the original intact rhombus shaped Telford crane with a linked chain. The jib
of the crane, with children power, could be swung around to dangle over the
less than salubrious confection of reeds, mud and accumulated detritus in the
canal basin. A child with either feet or hands firmly fixed in the hook at the
end of the chain, would be swung by several children power round 360 degrees.
It was a favourite trick for the least popular child or those with affluent
parents, to be left hanging over the Basin. The chosen child then had a choice,
either swarm up the linked chain and clamber down the extended jib arm or to
drop into the Basin gunge. A less than
glorious day, especially when arriving home there was every likelihood of an additional parental
punishment.

Telford Crane in the Canal Basin

At this date
in the UK, there was not even a whiff of EU membership or a Brexit future, we
had not gone “green” environmentally, in fact if someone in Buxworth had said
“Green” it would been either referring to Brierley Green or cheese. Domestic
waste was still being tipped at both Gisbourne Row (adjacent to the Basin) and
Daisy Hollow near Brierley Green. Children scoured both sites for
“Collectibles.” There were no secured boundaries or controlled supervision. A
good many of these former coveted childish objects are now being offered
at flea-markets and on Ebay. Coloured
bottles would be smashed to make jewels
for “Cowboy and Indians” and “Robin Hood” enactments. It was an over the
moon situation if a Silver Cross pram was found and the wheels were in such a
condition to make a decent trolley, the terminology then used was “a bogie”.

On marriage,
Miss Isobel Porritt (at this date woman teachers on marriage had to resign
their post) left Buxworth School, Mr.
P. E. N. Butt was appointed to the vacancy.
I cannot claim that I was a model pupil but only once can I remember
having the ruler. 5
minutes into one of his early lessons, Pen Butt said “Stop ! All those who have
not put their name and date at the top of the page come to the front”.All the culprits had to bend over and
receive 3 whacks with a 12 inch ruler.I was a little sore in more ways than one, but I thought little more
about the incident. Central heating was in the future, at home ours consisted
of an elevated cast iron multi-purpose open grate and oven. I was dressing for
school in front of this luxury when mother observed and expounded“What are the black lines across your bottom
?”. Then the close encounter with a 12 inch ruler sprang to mind. Nan and Ma
frog-marched me to school where I was put on display in glorious technicolour
for Boss Hallam's closer inspection. I cannot speak about the glorious
technicolour stripes but from the remarks played out before Boss Hallam I had a
good idea. He may have faced the Hun but he had met a formidable duo in Nan and
Ma. It would be true to say that I led a somewhat charmed life thereafter. The
School Logbook stated plainly. “Mrs
Holford accompanied by Mrs Platts came to school over Keith”. Many years
later Pen Butt wrote me an encouraging letter of support from his retirement
home in the Isle of Man when an article appeared in the Sunday Times expounding
on the campaign to stop the tipping of asbestos waste in Crist Quarry,
Buxworth. An accompanying photograph had me posed on the lip of the quarry. The
ruler marks by then had faded.

The School Cricket Team. Boss Hallam with glasses and Pen Butt

I was led to
believe that I was a very active child, on arrival home from school my first
question would be “What's for tea ?” Nan would invariable reply “Two jumps at
the pantry door and a bite off the latch”. One day I took her suggestion
literally and she never repeated those words again. Nan during the long summer
Sunday evenings would take me by bus from Buxworth to Kettleshulme, where we
would walk over Sponds Hill, Windgather Rocks and Charles Head, wending our way
back into the village to a wooden hut cafe behind Kettleshulme School . The
cafe served pots of tea and fancy cakes. The wooden hut has been long gone but
the memory of those jaunts are always refreshed when I drive through
Kettleshulme into Cheshire.

One afternoon
the power of the printed word to an eight year old was brought into focus and
disrepute. To save gas the coal fire in the cast iron fireplace was allowed to
flicker and glow while I made out faces out of the disintegrating embers.
Mother and Nan were chatting away and I with one ear cocked listened to the
local gossip and scandal. The conversation reached the point where it concerned
a married lady living nearby. Her son was one of my pals so I could honestly
claim that I had a vested interest in listening in to the outcome. Mum – “Don't you think that Mrs X is
losing her looks”. Quick as a flash I said “I know why Mrs X is losing her
looks !” Both ladies looked suitably perplexed by my words of implied wisdom.
Nan said “How do you know ?”. I then produced a newspaper containing an advert
for “Wincarnis Fortified Wine”. The top of the advert was headed “Why married
women lose their looks !”. Mother and Nan, much to my disgust fell about
laughing their heads off.

Great Grandpa
Platts arrived in the High Peak through working for the Midland Railway. He
subsequently trans-morphed into a master baker in a bakehouse behind Goyt Road at Whaley Bridge. The
building subsequently became the local sorting office for the Royal Mail. Both
Grandpa and Grandma Nan Platts became dab hands at decorating
and baking cakes of all descriptions. Grandpa Bert Platts became part of the
local St Johns Ambulance Brigade, two of Nan's brothers, John Warren and Jack
were in the same collective. He spent the Great War in India baking for the
Royal Army Medical Corps. Nan regularly made the claim that this dual role was
ideal, if his baking caused dietary problems he was on the spot with the
medical knowledge to put things right.

During WW2
villagers trooped round to our house to have Wedding, Birthday and other
celebratory cakes made by the two pairs of skilful hands. They had a black
spaniel who usually answered to the name “Prince” who unfortunately had a
penchant for cakes hot, cold or indifferent. During WW2 extra rations were allowed
for the making of certain celebratory cakes, but there was no second chance.
Our next door neighbour made the requisite order for her wedding cake, the cake
was baked and left to cool on a tray. Whilst it was cooling, Prince decided to
try a bit of self-service, having their cake and eating it. Luckily or
unluckily depending on whose point of view you take, Prince had only demolished
part of the cake before he was discovered. There was not enough ingredients
left to make a second cake so Nan baked a smaller cake from the remaining
ingredients and a portion of the replacement cake was engineered into the void
created by Prince. The happy couple, well part of the time, went on to meet
their maker, blissfully unaware (it is hoped) of “The Drama of the Dog in daytime”. Meanwhile Prince came within
an ace of being renamed “Black Prince”.

Grandpa Platts
was a very easy going sort of soul, I
was only once made aware that he could be roused. Prince was a laid back dog,
on his own terms, but there was one occasion when they acted in unison.
Derbyshire Education Committee employed school truancy officers to catch
children either illegally working or being absent from school with or without
their parent’s knowledge. Unannounced visits to the homes of suspected violators
was the modus operandi and I had caught “German measles” my infant
reasoning was that it must be due to
the war. It was common practice at this time to keep children with an
infectious disease away from school until the incubation period had lapsed.
Grandpa Platts had been left minding the shop so to speak, when there came a
knock on the back door. The truant
officer introduced himself by name and stated the purpose of the visit. I could
then hear an altercation taking place on the doorstep with Prince weighing in
with his seldom used “I live here
mode.” It was a Mr. Platts versus a Mr.
Platts and both assumed that they were taking the mickey. No 2 Mr. Platts never
called again.

Being a young
child and living in a rural village the war didn't have then same impact that
it had on adults. Early in the war, Henry, mothers brother, volunteered for the
RAF, hoping that he would be involved with flying aircraft. But after 2 weeks
at Padgate, near Warrington, his generosity was turned down. On the rebound
together with his pal Jack Hill they joined the Royal Navy together at H.M.S.
Ganges. Chatham. I was the postboy for sending the family letters to him and
CJX 354870, his service number, became perpetually etched into my memory bank. He never ever elaborated on his wartime
experiences, but he served on H.M.S. Arethusa on the supply convoys to Malta.
Travelling to America to crew LST 198 (Landing Ship Tank) part of the
American Lend Lease Programme. He was at the hell hole of the ferocious Anzio
beach landing in Italy and also the dramatic and bloody D Day landing on the
beaches of Normandy in June of 1944. He was serving in H.M.S. Abercrombie off
the coast of South Africa, when the war ended. Whereas Dad, much older, wasconscripted into the Green Howards at
Saltburn, North Yorkshire where the army attempted to make an infantry man out
of him and failed. He was transferred to join the Royal Army Ordnance Corps at
Old Dalby, Leicestershire. His claim to fame was that he represented the
battalion at cricket. Emrys Jones who opened for Glamorgan was in the same
team.

In November
1944 Arthur Dodd replaced Boss Hallam, when Boss took over the headship at
Whaley Bridge School. The niceties of life took on a whole new meaning, it was
out with the old and in with the new regime. Out in the playground in all
weathers, before entering school, hands were outstretched to be inspected on
both sides for cleanliness, “Cherry Blossom” shine was expected on our boots
and shoes. Woe betide the children whose task was “to muck out on the farm”
before arriving at school, the operation becoming the equivalent of being given
“red card” at football. Nan had always been a stickler for clean shoes, her
philosophy being that dressing up meant from tip to toe. When I skimped on cleaning
the heels she excused me by saying
“Well, a good soldier never looks behind him”. Mr Dodd could never
accept that I had personally cleaned my own shoes. He should have tried living
with her philosophy.

There were
some real characters at Buxworth School. Unless a pupil obtained a scholarship
to New Mills Grammar School you were stuck at your local primary school, there
being no secondary education at this time for the masses. The Smith family
lived on the school doorstep in Station
Road Cottages, demolished in a 1960's B6062 road widening scheme. Their father
only occasionally lived in residence, it was locally put about that he was “A
night repairer of church roofs”. The
sure sign that he was home and a man before his time, was when the boys appeared
at school with their hair shorn apart for a Mohican tuft at the front. “The Nit Nurse” regularly visited the school, the Smiths had cause to laugh,
there was no hiding place for the little varmints on their heads. Purple
patches painted on visible skin by the visiting nurse marked a child as
entertaining scabies.

The Smith
family names were in descending age were James, Mercy, Walter, Emily and David
but they answered to Jimmo, Merso, Woggo, Emmo and Dabbo. They seemed immune to
everything including frequent canings. Woggo never flinched or cried despite
blatant attempts to achieve that object. Any veggies missing from the school
allotment would be attributed to them without proof. Their ripped trousers and
patched pullovers would be considered fashion icons today. Later in life the
two girls married into a well known
“Rag and Bone” family from Stockport. My future father-in-law had the measure
of the boys, he waited until their pockets were filled with unripe fruit from
the orchard at Bugsworth Hall. He then
made his appearance, lining them up to eat all the unripe fruit that they had
removed from the trees. His admonishment was “Come back and ask when the fruit
are ripe and you can have them for free”.
Yes, they came back for more and yes, they got the same treatment.

Some of the
senior boys were bigger than the headmaster. I was surprised that they didn't
retaliate in some way to the canings. One occasion Mr Dodd caned a pair of the
younger Marchington brothers still attending school. They were tough as old
boots, living on an outlying farm at Clough Head, almost in New Mills. They had
an older brother Trevor who was built like house side. After a joint beating one of the brothers
said “I'm leaving now and I'm coming back later this afternoon with my big
brother”. Standards 1, 2, 3 and 4 waited with bated breath for the forthcoming
afternoon contest of “Dodd v Goliath”. It is a fair walk to Clough Head and
back so whether Colin decided against a double back we shall never know for Mr.
Dodd on some pretext closed the school early.

Mr Dodd's
three children attended Buxworth School, but no one could claim that he favoured his own. Mary with another girl (to
remain nameless) were both caught cheating in a mock examination for New Mills
Grammar School. He announced the punishment in front of the whole school. Sadly
and unfairly Mary was given twice the number of strokes as her co-conspirator.

The School
Logbook 26 July 1946 ends my school days at Buxworth The entry reads- “Keith Holford was successful in gaining a
free place at New Mills Grammar School as a result of this years examination.”
It wasthe start of even more
independence .

About The Society

We research and record Furness Vale's past. An archive of documents, maps and photographs is maintained by Chairman George Tomlinson, a product of many years research. We hold meetings on the first Tuesday of each month except July and August. A guest speaker usually presents an illustrated talk of local or regional interest. Membership is available at an annual fee of £5.
For further information contact David Easton 01663 744080 furnesshistory@gmail.com